


The prayers of the damned

by thursday11



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Angst, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I mean, M/M, Whump, i wouldn't say i am exactly proud of this au, later in the plot, the cralt comes a lot lot lot later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23653603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursday11/pseuds/thursday11
Summary: based on this https://rangerthursday11.tumblr.com/post/615399196424536064/okay-i-promised-ill-put-this-au-on-tumblr-asThis fic is written as series of one shots which are not time related. I will switch between the events and the time, depending on my mood.It won't be exactly pleasant ride but i promise not to take it too far because 1) i've never written anything like this, 2) i'm not comfortable around it either. Most of the fic will be the usual stuff you can expect from me, i'll try to keep the violence to minimum, for as you know, most of my work is built on mental suspense. I know that the tags say cralt. I would love to clear up something. The cralt comes a much, much later in the plot. Like, several years after the main plot.the title is by Hessy
Relationships: Crowley Meratyn/Halt O'Carrick
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	The prayers of the damned

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the first chapter!! i decided to call them prayers, by the name of the fic. I hope that at least some of you will like this fic. feel free to drop some advice in the comments, i am grateful for any criticism. Enjoy!!

Crowley hisses in pain as the ropes bite into his wrists once again while he shifts his leg. Sitting tied up on this chair isn't getting any more comfortable, no matter how much he tries to adjust taunt muscles on his arms tied behind the chair. 

"Silent treatment, huh?" he barks a laugh, his dried lips cracking open once again, the blood wetting them again.

Of course, no answer comes. None has come for four hours now. After Morgarath's dogs had beaten him bloody, they dragged him here, tied him to a chair and left. As time went, he had a good opportunity to assess his surroundings. Crowley wasn't a fool, he knew exactly where he was and why he was there. The torture instruments were more than obvious and the blood crusted all around the room was rather story-telling. He knew exactly what is going to happen to him. To say that he wasn't afraid would be a lie. Truth to be told, Crowley was scared to the marrow of his bones. But just as he was determined not to tell a single bit of information back in the camp when the stranger had handed him over to become a punching bag of Morgarath's soldiers and left, he was determined now. 

Crowley knows he is going to be tortured, there is no denying there. He knows what questions they're gonna ask. But what is there left for him but hope that he'll make it out somehow? That maybe someone will come for him? Yes, that is all he has left now and he's not letting it go. Until then, he will not give up. He grits his teeth as a single tear slides down his cheek. 

His eyes glance toward a small protrusion of light high on the wall. He can clearly see the dust swirling in the air, setting on the horrendous instruments around him.  _ Oh Pritchard... _

Another hour or so passes, at least Crowley thinks, based on the light from the small protrusion in the wall. By this time, all his body screams in silent pain, protesting on being tied to a chair in such manner. However, if you'd ask him, Crowley wouldn't be able to tell you if he can still feel the tips of his fingers or if he even has them at this point. The uneasy anxious feeling is rising up in him. The rational part of Crowley knows that this the part of the torture. Waiting him up. Let him get anxious over when the torture will start, what kind of pain will be inflicted upon his body. Crowley knows very well, but still... Little spikes are starting to seep through his mind, tearing apart his calmness, or whatever he more or less has maintained to keep so far.

By the time he finally hears something else than his breath that has become more and more ragged, he is uncontrollably trembling and beads of sweat are forming on his forehead. The sound of footsteps resounds from the hallway, along with the hated sleazy voice of Morgarath. 

The door opens and two figures step into the room, neither unfamiliar to Crowley, who grits his teeth in contempt. 

"Ahh! The ranger!" Morgarath exclaims as if he were surprised to see him here and walks over to him. "I hope you're having a wonderful time. Let it never be spoken that Gorlan can't offer the best of hospitality.”

Crowley doesn't deem his remark worthy of even a glare and rather glances behind Morgarath to study the second person. It's the stranger who handed him over to Morgarath's soldiers. Arratay, Crowley remembers the name. At least that's how the soldiers called him. 

Arratay, standing a few steps behind the baron, seems utterly disinterested, the look of boredom clearly written in his features under the grey cowl. Yet there is something in his posture that makes the ranger's skin crawl. Crowley immediately knows who's the biggest threat in the room. One look into the dark orbs of Arratay's eyes and the ranger can swear the temperature just dropped by at least five degrees. Memory flashes in front of his eyes, of Arratay holding a knife to his throat back then...

Crowley's hair is suddenly yanked back by Morgarath's iron grip. Caught by surprise and in sudden searing pain, a cry of pain escapes his lips before he can stop it. He turns his eyes full of hate to Morgarath, tears of pain welling in their corners.

"Now, that’s not very polite, looking away when your betters address you," Morgarath states with a smirk. The Baron turns around to Arratay, tightening his grip and emitting another hiss of pain from the ranger. "See? That is a ranger to you." 

Again, the figure in grey cloak stays silent, the expression clearly unbothered.

"G-go..." Crowley struggles to speak, his face enwrought with pain. "Fuck yourself," he spits out. 

His response is immediately answered by being backhanded by the baron. "Impertinent bastard," Morgarath scoffs and releases Crowley. 

Ranger's eyes dart around, his mind desperately trying to guess what will be coming next. His breathing grows quick and shallow, the blood pumping wildly in his veins. As much as he wants to resist and fight, Crowley knows he has to tread carefully. Even though he knows what to expect from Morgarath, more or less anyway, there is still Arratay in the room. Arratay, who managed to surprise him and catch him, a ranger, off guard. Crowley, unfortunately, hasn't learned as much as he'd like to about this mysterious man during a brief time he held him captive before he handed him to Baron's dogs. Mainly thanks to the man's impassive behaviour and the dialogues restricted only to "Get up.", "Drink.", "Rest.", "Walk." and such.

"Now, you see, ranger, I’m in a very good and gracious mood today," Morgarath's ugly voice cuts through the air again. "So, in order not to take up our dear Arratay’s time," he jerks his thumb at Arratay, "I am willing to give you one last chance to answer the questions you've been asked before. Who knows, I might even let you walk out of here, well and whole enough to go lick your wounded pride with your fellow scum.”

Crowley knows Morgarath is intent on killing him. Of course, he is. He knows he will be offered quick death if he cooperates, but he will die nonetheless. That is if he doesn't manage to get out of here. Whatever the outcome may be, he is hell sure he ain't telling anything to him. Instead of an angry answer or witty remark, Crowley just smiles on the baron and then genuinely his smile spreads even more as it seems to infuriate the other man.

But then, Morgarath's anger suddenly dissolves and a cold cruel smirk appears on thin pale lips. "Can't wait to see when he's done with you."

Crowley does his best to appear nonchalantly shrugging as the baron turns to Arratay. "He's all yours. Have fun!"

The slam of the doors echoes throughout the room, the only sound in deafening silence. Crowley closes his eyes for a moment and swallows the lump in his throat, then locks his gaze defiantly with the dark eyes of the other man, although it takes all his concentration not to just break down under the unyielding gaze of Arratay.

Arratay doesn't move for a while, standing there, studying Crowley, who could swear the man can see through his very soul. 

So when he finally does, the ranger startles and involuntarily flinches, which doesn't escape Arratay’s watchful eyes. The man heads to one of the tables, setting down his grey cloak and rolling up his sleeves, and grabs one of the chairs. As he sets it in front of the one Crowley is seated on and sits down backwards, the ranger's body betrays him with another unwanted tremble. Even the scraping of the chair across the stone tiles sounds ominous, as if foreshadowing what is about to come. 

Again, there is silence once again as Arratay gazes blankly at him again, this time taking in fully the blood-mated clothes on Crowley and bruises forming on his face.

Crowley is downright terrified. The lack of reaction from his now supposed tormentor is more than scary and his nerves are feeling like taunt mandola strings just before they are about to burst in the hands of the musician who is desperate to keep playing the song till the end.

He could deal with the guy punching him out of anger or sneering at him, humiliating him, making fun of him. But this... This wasn't any of the scenarios his mind created before. Nobody has ever prepared him for two dark onyxes boring into his own eyes with the unyielding sharpness of glacier.

Crowley, on his part, forces himself to snap out of it. The slight tremble in his body doesn’t cease but the ranger now studies his opponent in return. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Arratay before. But before it was mostly his back in the saddle as the ranger trailed behind him, tied to his horse. And aside from short instructions, the man hadn’t even talked to him. During the travel to one of the Morgarath’s camps Arratay stayed mostly impassive, unbothered, hardly even noticing that he actually has a prisoner with him. His aura was as grey as the very cowl wrapped around his shoulders. But now, there was something ominous about the man. Every move he makes, every breath he draws, it scares Crowley how calculated it is. Crowley can’t fail to notice how his clothes are actually pristinely clean in the sharp contrast with himself. It scares him and he can’t explain to himself why. 

Out of sudden, Crowley feels like suffocating in the not so small room. He wants to scream to anyone who can hear to get him out of the room. Away from the suffocating darkness of Arratay. Before he realizes, his lungs are taking in deep desperate breaths and his already tormented muscles painfully strain against the bounds. His brain doesn’t understand. The man hasn't even spoken to him yet, let alone raised a hand against him. 

He knows Arratay knows. He knows the man knows how scared he already is. He knows Arratay knows he already has him.

But even with this piece of information, Arratay doesn’t smirk or laugh. His expression remains the perfect blank slate, which makes the ranger feel even more hopeless.

“How many of the ex-rangers are there?”

Crowley is so submerged in his musings that he almost misses the question. The sound of Arratay’s voice startles him and his body violently flinches. Again. The man’s voice is exactly how he remembers it yet it sounds so miles different than the last he heard it. It’s cold like a winter breeze, empty like a starless night. 

The ranger shivers. Yes, Crowley is scared. Scared like probably not in his entire life so far. But he’s not broken. And he knows the best way to face a fear was head on. He shuts his eyes for a moment and gathers himself. Instead of an answer he just stares with defiance at his torturer. 

Aside from slightly raising one of his eyebrows, Arratay’s expression remains exactly the same as he ignores the absence of Crowley’s answer. 

“Who else besides Baron Arald has allied with you?”

Silence lays heavy around the two men.

“Where do you keep Duncan?”

Arratay’s withering gaze bores into his eyes but the ranger still refuses to answer.

“Why has Arald sent his troops to the north?”

After still no answer, Crowley can swear the air around them thickens, almost suffocating him. But the ranger still holds his ground. 

Out of sudden, Arratay gets up from the chair. He picks it up and gracefully walks over back to the table. Crowley doesn’t need to look twice to know what all kinds of instruments must lay there. He internally winces and braces himself to face the pain Arratay is about to inflict on him.

But all the other man does is simply setting the chair back where he took it from before. All Crowley can do is to stare at Arratay as he simply walks out of the torture room, not giving the tied ranger a single look. 

Crowley gasps in surprise as he finds tears freely streaming down his cheek. He doesn’t know why he cries. Nothing makes sense. Through his blurry eyes he can see that Arratay’s cloak was left on the table. 

His blood freezes and a small cry escapes his lips.

_ He will come back. _

Crowley mustn’t fall asleep. He mustn’t let himself be caught off guard again. 

_ He will come back. _

The pain in his limbs is slowly replaced by growing numbness, but by every second the turmoil inside him builds up.

_ He will come back. _

Crowley strains his eyes and prays for every last bit of remaining will and energy not to fall asleep. 

Because…

_ He will come back. _


End file.
